


In Payment of Debts

by InsertImaginativeNameHere



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Contemplation of Suicide, Dark Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I REPEAT THE COMIC VERSIONS OF CHARACTERS ARE USED HERE, Implied/Referenced Suicide, comic canon used, just warning people there, post-Newcastle angst, well not quite suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertImaginativeNameHere/pseuds/InsertImaginativeNameHere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after Newcastle, John turns up at Chas' house and asks to stay for a little while. Of course, Chas can't turn him away, because he owes him, and will do almost anything to repay his debt. But as he realised John's issues are worse than he thought he struggles to help in a situation totally alien to him. However he has to at least try, because he owes John that debt...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Payment of Debts

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing comics!Chas and John. And post-Newcastle angst. This is...this is a little dark but hey there's lightness and sweetness and humour in the form of John....heheheheh 
> 
> Okay I'm sorry. I did After Newcastle for the TV show, now here's, essentially, the comics version of Chas' first encounter with John after that shitfest went down. Not very much hurt/comfort here but eh I'm very much a shitty and appalling tactical tagger lmao. Here goes.

“I'll see ya next Monday, alright? No gettin' too pissed, you hear me?” Renee pointed a threatening finger at her husband as she left to stay with her mother who was recovering from a mild stroke. The old bat was lucky to even be alive. And so Renee insisted on taking the baby with her because 'she needs to spend some time with her nan before...' which was fair enough. She'd never even known Chas' mother, for the best really. Chas' mother had been _dealt with_ by the person they didn't talk about, Renee's archnemesis and Chas' best mate, to whom he was still indebted.

Right now though, Constantine's name was even more taboo than usual because of Newcastle. _Bloody Geordies,_ Chas thought, knowing instinctively that John Constantine was not the killer, rather all that bloody weirdness he dragged around, _they know fuck all about him._

Nobody knew anything in full, just bits and pieces. What that druggie Gaz knew was that John had screwed up big time, and a little girl had been brutally slaughtered. What John's sister Cheryl (who Chas would admit to having had a secret thing for once) knew was that her brother had gone mental and in the following months been yo-yoing in and out of hospital.

What the papers knew was some nutter with a history of 'erratic delusional behaviour' and 'Satanic practises' had apparently sacrificed a girl to the devil and murdered a whole room of people for his own ends.

What Chas knew was that was a load of bollocks. Constantine was a prick, and a manipulative fuck, but he wasn't- _he wouldn't_ -

Grunting noncommittally at his wife, relieved to get out of seeing his mother-in-law, Chas slumped onto the sofa with ease. As soon as they were gone, he got himself a beer and resumed his original position in front of the telly, watching the footie with disdain, swearing loudly at the useless fucking goalie and that wanker of a ref. Shite, that's what it was, a load of shite.

Half-time whistle.

The doorbell.

Both sounds collided and Chas muttered something under his breath. He got up and stumbled to the door, fumbling with the keys. Who the fuck was it? Who the fuck? If this was one of those bloody Church-going holier-than-thous-

Dishevelled, scruffily dressed in a poor imitation of his usual clothing, except for the coat which was, as ever, part of him, a second skin; his face haggard and gaunt, his smile crooked; John Constantine stood at the door. His expression was pained, his eyes lost and haunted. Chas knew what it was he was about to say before he even said it, that habitually sarcastic, mocking voice cracking with emotion as he said “Alright mate?”

Chas stared. It wasn't a hostile stare; but it sure as hell wasn't particularly welcoming either. John shifted under the look, visibly uncomfortable, him, the man who put others on edge, nervously shifting from foot to foot. The mask cracked. His eyes were full of tears, his clothing rumpled and his hair all over the place, unshaven, reeking of tobacco and booze. He was, in short, a wreck. And he was Chas' best mate. Chas _owed_ him. How could he turn him away?

“Thank God for Renee's bitch of a mother, eh?” John muttered as he came inside, clutching desperately at the remnants of his pride, wiping his boots on the mat. There was no point in asking how he knew. He always knew. It was another reason why people were scared of him, that and the magic, that and Newcastle. Newcastle.

Shit. Fuck. Newcastle.

“'eard you were, you know-” Chas made the universal sign for crazy “They let you out?”

John nodded, not looking up “Cheaper to give me the boot than keep me in. Listen, Chas...you don't mind if I – while Renee's away, like?”

“Nah John, I don't. You're a mate, aren't you? You're me best mate.” Chas shrugged “Just clear off when Renee gets back, she thinks you're-”

“A murderer?” John snorted “May as well be.”

What did you say? To John Constantine? Chas really wasn't good at this anyway, but to _him?_ He was out of his depth.

“You look like shit.”

John laughed darkly, and his friend felt the room grow colder and shivered involuntarily “That'd be the ECT, wouldn't it now? And the food at Ravenscar's fuckin' shite.”

Ravenscar. A high-security psych hospital. For the most dangerous loonies. Like John. To look at him now, he didn't seem mad. Mind you, on that note, it was hard for anyone who'd seen John in a punch-up to think of him as particularly dangerous either. You heard about the things he did like it was someone else, dissociated from the likeable, if occasionally obnoxious, git. There was John _Constantine,_ who behind his back _never to his face_ was referred to as 'the Hellblazer'. And then you just had _John._ An idiot, who'd collapse on your sofa and light one up, or try to. His hands were shaking.

Chas didn't know what to do. Constantine was supposed to be the smart-arse, the sarky bastard who had an anwer for everything and laughed everything off like it didn't matter. It was painful to see him like this, a decaying shadow of the man, who despite having the musical talent of a tone-deaf corpse, had easily commanded audiences in a punk band that, while being shit, was somehow spellbinding to watch. If anything, that was the magic of John Constantine. You wanted to like him. You wanted _him_ to like _you._ You cared what he thought. _He_ couldn't fall apart. He was too much of a certainty. He couldn't fall apart. He _couldn't._

Eventually, Chas couldn't stand it any longer and lit the fag for him.

“Cheers,” John said, smiling weakly.

“D'you fancy a takeaway?” Chas asked, by way of distraction.

“'m not really hungry.”

“Bollocks you aren't, son. You look like a fuckin' skeleton.”

“Alright mum, if you say so,” scoffed John “There's that new pizza place, en't there, Eddie's or what'sitcalled.”

“'ow'd you know 'bout that?” Chas couldn't help but ask, baffled “It only opened the other day.”

John laughed, and then broke into sudden harsh coughs “I swear to God, Chas, you get more gullible every day. Went past it on the way here, din't I?”

“Course you did,” Chas muttered, cursing his own stupidity.

“The food should be good, considering it's a front for a human trafficking ring,” John said offhandedly, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Narrowing his eyes, Chas tried to gauge whether this was another 'ha bloody ha look how stupid Chas is' moment. They happened a lot. Even utterly fucked up beyond belief, John's sense of humour was still sharp, and it was a fact universally accepted that Chas Chandler was somehow the butt of every joke.

“Very funny, not fallin' for that one.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” John grinned darkly “It's really an international drug smuggling cartel...”

 

-

 

They ordered and waited for the food in silence. A quiet John Constantine was a frightening thing. Out of awkwardness, Chas filled the silence, talking about mutual acquaintances, unlikely but amusing anecdotes, and even the latest in footie news, not that John was interested. All the while his friend nodded, staring off into space with unfocused eyes, like all those soldiers who came home with shell-shock, suppressed terror written all over his pale, blanched face. Until Chas mentioned Geraldine and John perked up, cocking his head and asking mischieviously;

“Who's the father then?”

“Shuddup you cheeky sod!” laughed Chas, in mock offence, secretly relieved. A glimmer of the old John, the _real_ John, the John who was on top of the world and laughing at his enemies, it shone through just for a moment. Underneath the Newcastle shit, he was still there, it was just harder to see with all the angst and the fear, the awful fucking fear. “At least we know who it _wasn't."_

“Never stopped me before. Me and Renee, you know...” John winked.

The two burst into paroxysms of laughter at the very thought. This was what Chas had missed, the moments of banter, the moments when he thought John might actually be his friend, that their connection ran deeper than debt and the occasional lift. There was always the prospect, which sometimes concerned Chas, that Constantine didn't give a shit about him and was just using him, stringing him along like he did so many other suckers. Right now it didn't seem that way. _Just you wait_ the cabbie thought _he'll be at it again soon. And then you can hate the bastard._ Give it time and he'd be scrounging lifts again, not to mention the conning, the outright stealing...

The _magic_.

The doorbell rang. Chas got up abruptly to fetch the pizza, cutting off the convulsive hilarity and setting them back to square one, that being awkward silence. He studied the pizza man's face intently to see if he looked like a drug smuggler-type; concluding that it was just John fucking about with his head, paying and heading back inside with the boxes of food. Pizzas. Garlic bread. Chips. Nipping into the kitchen, Chas fetched a couple more beers too. John didn't need anything stronger. He stank of whiskey already, and it was only early evening.

Heading back into the living room, he nearly dropped the meal all over the floor. The sofa was empty. John had vanished, into thin air. _Like magic._ Panic flooded Chas' mind. Oh shit.

“John!”

He set the food down quickly – well, he dropped it – trying to suppress his fears. There were all sorts of things that would want John dead and gone. Or he could have gone wandering off and get himself into a fight which he would be bound to lose.

“Constantine, you little-”

“What was that, mate?” the voice, that annoying Scouse-accented, sarcasm-tainted voice, the last thing so many people had heard before they died, breathed close to Chas' ear, barely a whisper. Bloody typical. Why did he always do that? It was his style, suave bugger, one of the other reasons people were scared of him. “Little what?” he took a drag from his cigarette and chuckled darkly, wheezing slightly then coughing. “Think I came down with summat, Ravenscar y'know? It'll be right. Go on, finish your sentence.”

“Never mind. Leave it, John. I thought you'd, you'd gone runnin' off like a right idiot, alright?” _Like you always do,_ Chas thought, but didn't say out loud.

John raised his eyebrows “Like I always do,” he said, tonelessly echoing Chas' internal thoughts as if he could hear them. The cab driver shuddered. Sometimes you could see the reason why people who didn't know John were afraid of him. You saw his eyes go cold and 'that bastard Constantine' side of him seemed to sllip through. Chas wondered which was real, which was the mask: John, the bloke he'd known for years, ex-lodger, used to front that awful sodding band; or the coldhearted wanker who'd caused a little girl's death, who left a trail of actual demons in his wake, the occultist and regular confidence artist who could put the fear of God into you with one look. You understood. And then it was gone, and John smiled a shaky grin, and you could see the exhaustion, the tired sort of sadness under his forced smile. He was trying, bless him, he really was. But he was an echo, a shade, so unconvincing Chas felt bad for him, and, unable to say anything, pretended to be taken in by the bluff.

When all along he knew this wasn't John, not really. There was something missing, that key integral part, a hole where something important was supposed to be, but you couldn't quite tell what. The electricity, the energy was gone, siphoned away until he was left, empty. This wasn't John because _it just wasn't._ It wasn't.

Wasn't it?

He was about to ask John if he wanted another beer, or another slice of pepperoni, when he saw his friend had fallen back into an exhausted sleep, breathing raggedly in choking bursts. Sympathy tore at Chas, but he pushed it away. John didn't like people feeling sorry for him. Instead, Chas fetched a spare blanket from Renee's precious linen cupboard and placed it over the sleeping man. Then, annoyed he couldn't finish watching the match – bloody John why did he have to pick now? - he took the rest of the takeaway into the kitchen and finished it there, then headed for his own bedroom, checking on the stupid bastard on the sofa quickly, before going upstairs to get some sleep.

If that was even possible, what with the screaming from downstairs.

 

-

 

It started at about 3am. Loud, blood-curdling screams. Chas, panicked, ran downstairs to see what the problem was, fearing demonic attack or some shit along those lines. He found the living room empty, excepting his best friend, writhing in agony on the couch. There was an acrid stench coming from the sofa.

Nightmares. Violent, bloody nightmares. Newcastle-in-dreams. Hauntings at night. So it was true. John had lost his mind, left it back in Hell right there with the remnants of his soul.

He'd also ruined the sofa too, but Chas didn't want to point that out to the whimpering, petrified, half-awake man who was currently sobbing into his friend's shoulder.

Chas had seen people in unbelievable states of fucked-upness, Gary Lester when he was high was always pathetic, or yeah, John sometimes after a few too many, but this was the worst it had ever been; for anyone Chas had ever seen. He'd never witnessed this, a breakdown so absolute, all he could do was awkwardly console his friend as best he could. As soon as John came around, he pulled away immediately, curling up with his head pressed into his knees and his coat wrapped around him for comfort. Though Chas was admittedly more comfortable, he was also deeply, deeply worried; he had known John didn't sleep well from way back in the band days. But this was a whole new level.

“Shit, John. I didn't know it was this-” A furious glare cut him deep, and he broke off. John was angrier than he'd seen him in a long time, pure hatred seething from that look.

“You weren't there, Chas. Newcastle. You don't understand. You _can't._ ”John's voice was poison, acid on every word. As suddenly as it reared up, the fury subsided, replaced by blank hopelessness. “You weren't there.”

“I know. An' I'm glad – look at what it's done to you, and you're... _you._ ” For years all Chas had wanted, all any of them had wanted really, Gary, Richie, everyone except Renee, all they had wanted was John's attention, not that Chas would ever admit it. You looked up to John from a distance. And then Newcastle hit, a tornado tearing through their lives and ripping up everything they lived for. And now this. “If it's screwed with _your_ 'ead this badly, I don't think I could have taken it.”

“No. You couldn't.” John said coldly, unfolding himself and standing up. “I should get goin'.”

“What?” Chas blocked his friend, stopping him from leaving “Where you gonna go? D'you think I'm so, I dunno, heartless, that I'll kick you out for havin' nightmares? You've never exactly been normal, or, what's the word, functional, yeah, that psychobabble shit. So Newcastle's sent you round the bend. That doesn't change anything. I still owe you, John, I owe you this much.” He shrugged uncertainly “We're still mates, and just coz I don't know 'ow to 'elp, doesn't mean I'm a complete bastard.”

John nodded “Mention this to anyone Chas, and mates or no, you're dead. You hear me?”

“Course, John. You can trust me, alright?” He saw John raise an eyebrow, snort, at that concept. John didn't trust anyone. “Honest. You can trust me.” Chas repeated those words until John's face turned from anger, from fear, to sorrow.

“Jesus, Chas, what'd I do to deserve this?” he said, voice trembling, along with his hands and pretty much the rest of him.

“Newcastle?” Chas ventured “You didn't-”

“I didn't mean Newcastle,” John fired back “I meant _this._ What did I do, what one thing in the endless string of fuck-ups and downright betrayals, out of every bastard thing I ever did, all of it, what did I do that made me deserve your loyalty?”

Chas couldn't find an answer, couldn't put the words together in the right order. He stammered something half-hearted about friendship, then left the room, giving John space to clean up the piss on the sofa.

 _You were you._ Chas thought, but couldn't ever say. _You were John fucking Constantine and that was enough. You saved me from my mum, you dragged me into your world, you were there. _

And now he was gone. He was there there and he...wasn't, and fuck it if Chas didn't know what to do, how to bring himback.

He didn't deserve this, none of it. He didn't deserve Chas' loyalty and Chas sure as hell didn't deserve having him around. He deserved better.

He had always deserved better.

 

-

 

 

Chas didn't get much sleep the rest of the night. He flitted in and out of his own tumultuous dreams, and when he was awake, he could hear John pacing downstairs, then the sound of running water from the shower. Running water.

At 6:37, Chas got up to use the loo, staggering blindly across the landing to the bathroom. It was pitch-dark, and he snatched at the light-switch, guessing its location incorrectly at first but eventually getting there. The lights flickered on slowly, buzzing faintly but loudly enough to be irritating. And under the subtle orange glow, the shadows lengthened and the whole room took on a sinister tone.

The bath was full. John was sat on the side of it, towel and coat wrapped tightly around himself. Next to him was a razorblade. As soon as Chas entered he pulled the plug immediately, and put the blade away, looking sheepishly at the floor.

Part of Chas was furious, God, John had been prepared to let Chas walk into the bathroom and find _that._ He hadn't given a thought about how it would affect his friend. And to think, only the previous evening, he had been making dark jokes, covering for this instability. It rocked Chas' faith, shocked him to the core; he was torn between shaking John senseless, punching him one and crying into the familiarity of that ridiculous beige overcoat. Fuck. It was worse than that. It was worse than Chas had ever thought, and he'd already been frightened John was gone forever. This was like a stabbing blow, a violent pain in his chest as everything he thought he knew crumbled to dust.

“This en't what it looks like, Chas-” John said, in his most convincing, almost hypnotic voice, the one you wanted more than anything to believe, the one that wrapped you up in a layer of lies which were more comfortable than the truth. “Look, it's not-”

“It's not what? So you weren't about to- about to off yourself, were you, Constantine, you _arsehole_?! You're just _fine_ ain't you, it 'en't what it looks like',” Chas mimicked John's accent sarcastically, trying to stop himself from descending into tears. As long as he could be angry, he would be fine. It was when he slowed down the full weight of it would hit him and he wouldn't be able to hold it together. And one of them here needed to be able to hold it together. “Was it that bad?”

“You have no idea,” muttered John, and then he looked up, meeting Chas' gaze with his deadened, lifeless eyes, and he told Chas what had happened at Newcastle, in all the details. He told Chas how he had fucked up, how it was his arrogant mistake that had killed Astra. He told Chas how he had been so certain he could save her, how he had gone into hell and come out with a fragment of her, a bloody arm. And how he hadn't argued when they'd zoned in on him as the killer because he was, essentially. It was his fault she had died, her death was on his soul and as such, then, he was damned. Hell was waiting for him when he died. “That was why I can't go through with it, can't let them win, can I?” John shrugged “That an' I'm not a complete arsehole. I couldn't do that to you, mate. I'll go, if you want. I wouldn't want me stayin' here if I was you.”

The anger deflated, and Chas felt the emptiness inside him rise up “Fuck it,” he managed “I can't. You shouldn't be 'ere. You shouldn't be out of 'ospital.”

John cringed “It's worse in there, Chas. They're a bunch of pricks. You know how they treat people like...you know how they treat _nutters._ It's a fuckin' zoo. But at least they've got the dear old ECT, gotta love it. An' I dunno, at least I can't kill anyone else in there.”

“It wasn't-” John glared at Chas, and the cabbie knew he had to choose his next words carefully “John, you- I dunno. You tried. If you hadn't there'd still be that fear monster thing killin' people, right? You can't blame everythin' wrong with the world on yourself. It ain't all on you, y'know? If you're gonna stay here for the rest of the week, no more of this shit. I can't take it, seein' this, seein' you-” Chas choked up, eyes filling up and spilling over “I can't. John, I can't.”

“'m sorry,” John murmured “Really, I am. Dunno why I thought this'd be a good idea.”

“Why did you?”

“I just said I didn't know, Chas, weren't you listening?” John snickered, then sighed deeply “No-one else would let me past the door. I'm not exactly in anyone's good books right now. But Renee's away and you owe me so I thought...just for a week, like. Pretend everything's normal. No magic. You're a good distraction from the rest of it. All the other shit I have to put up with.”

It was funny. Chas had, for his childhood and adolescence, been the outsider, the one with the weird mum, walking between magic and reality, unable to leave home and commit to an ordinary life. Then he'd met John, whose relationship between the supernatural and everyday worlds was even more complicated. Who was a distraction from real life, where Chas was only a cab driver. He had never thought it might be the same for John.

Constantine had always given himself entirely to magic. It had been everything to him, all that he had loved and enjoyed. Now it had consumed him, ceased to be fun and become snarling dreams of Newcastle in the shadows of the night. Without magic, who was John? What was he? Chas realised John had no idea himself. And he had retreated to normalcy – that being, Chas.

“Jesus,” Chas looked at his friend and felt sorrow “What do you want me to do?”

John smirked, and Chas really wanted to backhand him because this was not the time _now was not the time!_ “I need some clothes. Shirt, tie, clean trousers. Something smart. Then I'm going out. There's a new bloke at one of the bookies, probably won't have heard of me. I'll get some cash together, find meself a place by Friday and move in before Renee even knows I was here.”

“You sure you bein' on your own's, you know, a good idea? What if-” _What if you do something stupid, you complete wanker, what if you_ _die_ _?_

“I'm not a fuckin' five year old, Chas, I can look after meself, can't I?” John sounded incredulous “Well, with exceptions, but honestly, I'll be right.”

 _I fucking hope so_ thought Chas, but said nothing.

 

-

 

He wasn't alright. 

The rest of his stay passed uneventfully, and he did seem to be getting himself together. They went out for drinks a couple of evenings, and John even paid for drinks – he'd just come into some money, managing to pull a number on not just one, but several of the local bookies. There were no repeats of that first evening, though his nightmares were still severe.

Then he left, Renee came home none the wiser, talking some bullshit about her half-dead mother and if she noticed the sofa had been scrubbed and bleached, she said nothing. Which meant she probably hadn't noticed it. She did notice the empty box of cigarettes John had left on the kitchen worksurface, and how Chas had got through more alcohol than expected. A look at the brand 'Silk Cut' gave her an inkling, but not full confirmation of the identity of their guest; there were, after all, other people in the world that smoked that brand.

“Well?” Renee had said, hands on her sizable hips and face red with anger. “Who was it? Who stayed over?”

“Leave it, Renee.” Chas growled, which in hindsight was probably a bit of a giveaway.

“' _im. It was 'im, weren't it?!_ ” she shrieked, as if the name John Constantine was too toxic to be spoken in that house, under that roof, _in front of their child_. The rest of that evening was one Chas spent down the pub.

Meanwhile, John had rented an apartment and was paying rent through various elaborate cons he was conducting. He seemed okay, when Chas met up with him for drinks. He wasn't.

He wasn't alright.

A few weeks passed, and John disappeared without word. This wasn't concerning; he did that a lot. True, this was slightly more worrying than most times but Chas tried to put it to the back of his mind. He tried to pretend everything was fine.

John wasn't alright.

Cheryl phoned. Her brother had turned up outside her house, dead drunk, raving about demons and somesuch, and crying about what had happened at Newcastle. About Astra.

He was back in Ravenscar, she said, and she thought Chas should know that because John had said, in an all-too-rare moment of lucidity, that Chas was his only remaining friend and he needed to know he wasn't dead 'this time'.

Because there was a day coming when John wouldn't be able to talk his way out of whatever hell he had talked himself into. He would wind up dead, by human hand or whatever other entities he had managed to piss off. He would be struck down by the divine, or the diabolical, or whatever it was that lived in between.

A person like John Constantine couldn't live a normal life, and every year he was still alive was a miracle.

That was the truth, the truth Chas was only just coming to see.

But hell, the next time he got a phonecall at two in the morning asking for a lift to god only knew where, he'd have to go and help because ultimately, when it came down to it, he still owed John.

Even if that lift put John at risk of death, Chas had to provide it, even when Renee bollocked him about it, even when John was a total pain in the arse and all Chas really wanted was to beat the crap out of him, he had to help him out because he owed him.

A debt is a debt.

He _owed_ him. For God's sake, why did nobody understand?

He owed him everything. There was no way to pay that back. Except to pick up the phone, get in the taxi and ferry his best mate from here to there.

Alternatively, he could just teach him to drive.

But that would be too small a payment for such a monumental debt.

He owed him everything.

And that was why they were still friends.


End file.
